


The Letter

by bcbdrums



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Best Friends, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Humor, Male Friendship, Memories, Music, No Slash, Post-Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Post-Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Post-Season/Series 04, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock's Violin, Tags Are Hard, Violinist Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-30 23:25:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15761877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bcbdrums/pseuds/bcbdrums
Summary: This was a new melody.  It was as entrancing as anything he had heard Sherlock play before, and seemed to be a study in contrast with its alternating quick rhythms and long, slow tones.  It moved in and out of major and minor structures in total unpredictability, and yet, it all fit together perfectly.John closed his eyes and listened in silence, trying to picture something to go with the piece.  But nothing came.Suddenly it stopped, seemingly mid-phrase, and he opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock who was watching him and holding his breath, the bow still hovering over the strings."What's that?" John asked.





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Welcome to a grand musical journey filled with emotional ups and downs and hopefully some laughs. I don't want to say anything because it will spoil the story, but this fic will hit a couple of major fandom tropes from S3 and S4. I'll talk about it all and what inspired this fic in more notes at the end. I am immensely proud of this and will appreciate comments.
> 
> There are audio files embedded into the story. The idea is that you press play and then listen as you read. If a song runs out, that's fine. If it's time for a new one and the current one hasn't finished, that's also fine--stop the old and start the new. If a song is repeated, that's supposed to happen. If the story says a song ended but there isn't a new link and a character didn't say to stop it, then you can let it play. If a song is purposely stopped by a character as part of the story, you stop yours. In one place Sherlock demands you stop the music--do listen to him! This is all by extremely careful design.
> 
> One link has a timestamp indicating where specifically to listen. Follow that to keep the mood.
> 
> Please note--these are YouTube links. Install/enable ad blockers so the mood isn't ruined by any commercials. 
> 
> The story does change between John's and Sherlock's POV a few times. It does so within the narrative; I hope it isn't confusing.
> 
> Enjoy!

  
  
"Hey, Sherlock?" John asked, looking up from his laptop.  
  
"Mm?"  
  
The detective was hunched over his desk where he was replacing a single string on his violin.  
  
"Why don't you play anymore?"  
  
John saw the muscles beneath Sherlock's shirt tense ever-so-slightly.  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"Your violin.  You never play anymore."  
  
"I play for hours twice a month," Sherlock reminded him, though there was hardly any protest in his voice.  
  
"I don't mean when you play for your sister, I mean...when you play for yourself.  You used to play for yourself, all the time."  
  
Sherlock was silent, so John continued.  
  
"You used to compose, or play Bach...  I think that was my favorite." John said more to himself.  "Or just...make noise...  But I haven't heard you play in ages.  You never play when I'm—" John stopped, as understanding struck him.  He finished his thought quietly, "...when I'm here."  
  
There was no response from the detective except a further tensing of the muscles beneath the thin shirt.  
  
John sighed and continued to stare at the screen of his laptop.  
  
He had his blog open.  He was trying to update it for the first time in months, but words simply would not come.  Nothing that was okay to write at least.  
  
**_Nothing_** , he finally typed into the heading.  
  
He stared at it for several minutes, seriously contemplating posting it.  But as he began to move the mouse—  
  
_"You know why he doesn't play."_  
  
John looked up at Mary's spectre, standing with crossed arms and disapproving face next to the desk.  
  
John closed his eyes and shook his head, willing her away.  When he looked up again she was gone.  
  
He backspaced on the keyboard until the word was gone and typed in a different one.  
  
**_Alone._**  
  
He stared at this word for several minutes too, and this time clicked below to the content section to type.  
  
_Alone.  Lonely.  Are they the same thing?_  
  
_I thought I'd gotten used to them both, before..._  
  
Several more minutes passed as he stared at the words and refused to take the dark thoughts any further in his mind.  Certain things he could no longer permit himself.  His priorities had changed.  
  
He moved the mouse over the 'post' button, but looked up at Sherlock's back before doing so.  
  
His friend was still working on the new violin string, and Mary's ghost hadn't returned.  
  
He clicked the mouse, and as soon as the screen refreshed with a 'post successful' message he closed the laptop.  
  
_"That's not what he needs, John."_  
  
He looked up, startled, as Mary gazed down at him.  She was next to Sherlock again, and as he gazed at her he noticed the faint glow of the man's phone as it lit up inside his trouser pocket.  
  
_"He's got your blog set to alert him whenever you post."_  
  
John sorely wanted to argue with her, that Sherlock had never shown a positive interest in the blog even when its popularity had given them an increase in unique cases.  But to do so would be to let Sherlock know she was back, and he couldn't do that.  
  
_"You're really going to bully him into forgiving you?  You know him better than that."_  
  
At that moment, the baby monitor on the end table crackled to life with soft, feminine whines of distress.  
  
"Rosie's crying," he said unnecessarily as he rose.  
  
He paused in the doorway and glanced back at Sherlock who was so still he was barely breathing.  
  
_"You know him, John."_  
  
Mary now stood with arms crossed at the top of the stairs.  He took a deep breath and began his ascent.  
  
_"The second he's certain you're gone he'll be reading that post.  And what do you think that will do to him?"_  
  
"I don't need you to be my conscience," he said under his breath.  
  
_"Apparently you do, since you brought me back."_  
  
John ignored her as he entered his old room where Rosie lay on the bed, surrounded on all sides by pillows bolstered by heavy books.  She wasn't old enough yet to roll off the bed, but just in case.  
  
Her cries became less frantic when he picked her up, but they continued more melancholy and longing.  
  
"There, there, darling..." John whispered as he rocked her and pat her back.  "I know you miss your mother.  So do I."  
  
He glanced up to where Mary was leaning in the doorjamb, her eyes shining with un-shed tears.  
  
John sighed, and shifted Rosie in his arms.  "Let's go see if we can't fix some of your daddy's mistakes now, hm?"  
  
Mary didn't block his way as he descended the stair.  He looked at Sherlock's back curiously despite himself, but the man looked exactly as he'd left him right down to the weight of the mobile in his pocket.  
  
John continued patting Rosie's back as he sat carefully in his chair.  Her cries had become plaintive whimpers, no less sorrowful, and it rend John's heart.  
  
He wasn't just alone.  He was also powerless to help his daughter, who was experiencing a loss that no child should ever have to.  And her young age made it all the worse.  
  
He wondered if things would have been easier at this stage if he hadn't so viciously shut Sherlock out of his life.  At the least things would have been more consistent for her.  
  
Closing his eyes, he rested his cheek against Rosie's head and hummed softly as he rocked her.  There was no tune, but it always seemed to help.  
  
Gradually her cries stilled, but he knew that if he were to stop his ministrations they would start back up again as they did every night.  
  
Each and every night.  
  
Just then he heard the soft plucking of strings as the violin was tuned.  
  
He opened his eyes expectantly, but the instrument still lay across the desk, and the bow untouched in the case.  
  
Sherlock turned and sat sideways in the chair, elbows resting on his knees and hands dangling limply between them.  His eyes were downcast and unfocused.  
  
John took a breath.  He didn't need Mary for this.  
  
"Do you still have it?" he asked.  
  
"Have what?" Sherlock replied, not even blinking.  
  
John paused and spoke carefully.  "You know what."  
  
Sherlock did blink then, several times in quick succession.  
  
John quickly gave him a way out.  "I guess...it would have been lost with everything else, in the explosion."  
  
Rosie let out another soft whine of despair, and John patted her back.  
  
Sherlock took a deep breath and exhaled long and slow.  
  
"Doesn't matter.  I remember it," he exhaled again.  "All of it."  
  
John closed his eyes in regret, but then leaned forward.  "Sherlock...  I never should have given it back to you.  I'm sorry.  I was angry, and...alone.  And I just couldn't stand..."  
  
He glanced away into the fire, and finally he felt Sherlock's eyes on him.  He didn't look up.  
  
"I was so lost.  And I couldn't cope with...with what I had done.  It was easier to shut everyone out, than to face it.  Especially since the person I—"  
  
He stopped abruptly as tears suddenly filled his eyes and threatened to spill onto his face.  He wondered if that reaction to thinking of Mary and what he'd done to her would ever stop.  
  
He took a long, slow breath to calm himself and looked up. He briefly caught the worried look in Sherlock's eyes before the man's eyes darted away.  But John stared until his friend finally looked back, apprehensive.  
  
John spoke the instant he had the man's gaze.  "I didn't mean what I wrote.  You know that."  
  
Sherlock's eyes continued their dance between John's and the corner, uncertain.  
  
"Truth is I'd still be lost, without you.  Possibly...beyond saving.  And Rosie..." John looked down at his now-sleeping daughter with a smile.  "She would have no one at all."  
  
Sherlock blinked, and then suddenly rose and strode past John, through the kitchen, and disappeared into his bedroom.  
  
John looked after him in confusion but the man reappeared in moments.  As he strode silhouetted through the door John noticed one hand was clenched at his side.  His chest constricted as Sherlock approached him, wondering at this sudden change of attitude.  
  
The detective held the closed fist out a bit until John opened his own hand beneath it, and then Sherlock released what he held.  
  
John shifted Rosie so he could have use of both hands, and then carefully unfolded the crumpled paper.  
  
He spread it out on his knee as best he could, looking at the familiar scrawl and delicate patterns that made very little sense to him.  And written over all of it, marring the precision and beauty, was his own bold, hastily-penned script.  
  
"You know..." he said after a moment, "it was the best present Mary and I got.  Everything you did for us.  We couldn't have asked for more.  And this was...above and beyond the call."  
  
Sherlock was sitting at his desk again, straighter this time, and staring at something in the near corner.  
  
"Nothing was too much," Sherlock answered after a moment, his voice low.  
  
John grimaced as he smoothed the paper again and read over the words he had written.  
  
**_'From the day we met you've been ruining my life.  Stay out of it!'_** it said.  Words he had meant in that moment of fear and anger and self-loathing and wanting to crawl out of his own skin if only it meant _he_ could escape his life, too.  But after weeks of no relief from his misery, he began to understand that his anger was entirely misdirected.  
  
"I don't think..." he began quietly, "I've ever been more wrong, than when I wrote this."  
  
Sherlock's brow rose and he gave John a sidelong glance. "No.  There was another time."  
  
John looked at him curiously, but Sherlock revealed nothing else as he moved to get his violin bow from the case.  
  
John held his breath, steadying himself, as he looked at what was written beneath the angry note he had penned.  Barely readable music notation, not carelessly put down, but just well enough for its own composer to read.  It wasn't exactly what Sherlock had played at the wedding, but it resembled it closely enough.  
  
Sherlock raised the bow to the strings.  John tensed further.  And then—  
  
[Memory 1](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfbThcQ04aE)  
  
—the bold opening chord of Bach's Sonata No. 1 filled the room.  
  
John released his breath after a moment of confusion.  He had said Bach was his favorite, after all.  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back in the chair to listen as the lachrymose descending melody filled the room.  
  
Sherlock favored sad music, John realized as he listened to the passionate and thoughtful tune.  Whether he was on a case or bemoaning the lack of one, the detective only ever chose to play pieces written in a minor key.  And this particular one was a favorite of both of them.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him, making the briefest eye-contact before turning and walking toward the window where he so often played.  It was 'the face.'  And a moment later John's lips parted as he realized why it had been given.  
  
This was the first piece John had ever heard Sherlock play.  
  
It had been in the wake of an unsolved case.  A young girl had been kidnapped, and the police had absolutely no leads.  
  
When Sherlock was called in to investigate John had been living with him for enough weeks to be accustomed to his more questionable behaviors, such as insulting the official forces and diminishing the value of human life.  But it was the first time John had seen Sherlock's humanity take the lead in a case...

* * *

  
"Got anything, Freak?" Donovan asked disinterestedly.  
  
John's brow twisted in puzzlement, failing to understand her contempt.  Certainly Sherlock wasn't averse to embarrassing her publicly with details of her sex life, but that wasn't reason enough for the woman's vitriolic attitude.  
  
"I might have if someone had seen fit to call me before you lot trampled the crime scene like a herd of elephants," was the detective's reply.  
  
"We don't have to call you," Donovan complained, crossing her arms.  "The only reason we did is—"  
  
"Mr. Holmes?" a small, feminine voice stopped Sally's tirade before it began, and they all turned to see the source.  
  
A very slight woman, about their age, huddled nearby in an oversized coat that had seen too many winters.  A taller man stood just behind her, and his face and hands bore the signs of too many hours working hard for too many years.  From the looks of utter desperation in their eyes, John assumed they must be the parents of the kidnapped girl.  
  
"Yes?" Sherlock said, having appraised them.  
  
"We heard...that is, your friend told us you could work miracles," the woman said.  
  
Sherlock glanced at John in surprise.  And was that...embarrassment in his eyes?  
  
John realized then that Sherlock had mistakenly assumed he had been talking to the couple.  And in the brief moment of their eye contact he deduced the cause of the odd look in Sherlock's eyes.  
  
It wasn't that someone had called him a miracle-worker.  It was what the woman had called whomever had been speaking to her.  
  
Because Donovan had said quite correctly that he didn't have _friends_.  
  
Something about this implication had taken Sherlock aback, and he stood glancing between John and the couple in silence.  
  
"Mr. Holmes?" the man spoke now.  
  
"Yes, sorry.  Yes.  To the untrained eye my observations could be construed as...miraculous," Sherlock said, sounding uncharacteristically uncomfortable.  On the last word he had looked at John, now seeming apprehensive.  
  
Whatever was now bothering Sherlock, John wanted to tell him if it would help that he hadn't been the one talking to the couple.  But there was no way he could do that in front of them and Donovan.  All he could do was wait until they had all gone.  
  
"Can you find our Samantha?" a man's voice broke in, and John turned his attention to the tall man behind the woman.  He had straightened up a bit and was holding his head up.  
  
John frowned.  He had seen too many similar situations in his army days to worry about someone having a stiff upper lip in a crisis.  
  
Before Sherlock could answer the woman spoke again.  
  
"She was just playing, as she always does, out in the yard.  Having a tea party for her dolls.  I only left the window for a moment.  Just to put my mug in the sink.  It was only a moment."  
  
The woman's head bowed as she suddenly began to cry, and the man encircled his arm around her.  
  
John watched as Sherlock blinked a few times, and then seemed to come to some decision.  
  
"I...shall do everything in my power to find your daughter," he said.  
  
John's brow rose, and behind Sherlock he saw Sally Donovan's jaw drop.  
  
The woman looked up, hope in her eyes despite the tears.  But John saw the man's breath hitch.  Sherlock locked eyes first with the woman, then with the man.  John suspected only he could see the slight change on the detective's face as he gave silent communication.  
  
"Really?" the woman said.  
  
"Yes.  And I need to continue my investigation.  Please excuse me."  
  
Sherlock abruptly strode away from the group of people and into the street in front of the house, bending over the kerb.  
  
"I need some light!" he shouted at no one.  
  
John heard another familiar voice and turned to see Greg Lestrade at the edge of the police cordon giving orders.  A floodlight from somewhere suddenly illuminated the portion of street Sherlock was hovering over, shining off the detective's dark curls as he stalked the gutter looking for something.  
  
John, ignored by Donovan and the couple, strode calmly over to where Sherlock was pacing.  The detective's turn of phrase had been no more lost on him than it had the kidnapped girl's father.  
  
"So...looking for tyre traces?" he said after a few moments of observation.  
  
"Obviously," Sherlock muttered.  
  
"Even though you think it's hopeless."  
  
Sherlock paused and without rising lifted his eyes toward John.  They shared a look of understanding.  
  
"I said I would try," Sherlock finally responded, and returned to his task.  "Ah!"  
  
John stepped forward.  "What is it?"  
  
Sherlock was already crouched down and scraping some bits of mud and vegetation into an evidence bag.  
  
"A stroke of luck.  Combined with the CCTV footage we might just—"  
  
He broke off suddenly, his hand stilling in its task as well.  But a moment later he continued until he was satisfied and closed the bag.  
  
"We might find the kidnappers," John continued the thought, "but no one will ever see Samantha again."  
  
Sherlock straightened up but didn't look at John.  He was looking past him to the couple still standing on their lawn, talking with Sally Donovan, just barely visible as the sun finally completely set.  
  
"Daytime kidnapping," Sherlock said, "executed in the exact moment the mother left the window."  
  
He turned abruptly and made for Lestrade, who was eyeing him from the edge of the cordon.  John followed at a distance and listened to his demands for CCTV footage from the surrounding streets.  
  
He frowned and willed away the memories that suddenly surfaced of the most innocent lives lost in Afghanistan—the children who never had a chance.  And worse, the ones who had suffered a similar fate to Samantha.  
  
_No,_ he thought as he followed in Sherlock's wake, _no one will ever see her again._

* * *

  
Hours later John sat blinking in what he was now considering his chair in the sitting room at 221B.  He was barely awake, but after the night they had had he wasn't ready to sleep, and he wasn't ready to be alone.  
  
Like a trained bloodhound, Sherlock had gone over all of the CCTV footage and somehow identified where the kidnapper's van was regularly parked based on the traces he had taken from the street in the evidence bag.  
  
Phone calls had been made, and John found himself being dragged out of his bed and out the door at half-past two in the morning and rushed into a taxi listening as Sherlock barked orders to the police via his mobile.  
  
He remembered the small spark of hope he had felt, wondering if this time Sherlock truly had worked a miracle.  
  
And then John had felt simultaneously out of place and at home when suddenly they were deposited amidst a special operations unit at the docks.  
  
They had missed all the action and despite the words John heard being thrown around like 'human trafficking' and 'hero of the realm' and 'knighthood,' he never heard the words he knew both he and Sherlock were truly there for.  
  
Sherlock had strode purposefully through the scene, ignoring all commands to stay outside the police tape, and John struggled to keep up with him.  
  
There had indeed been people saved, sitting now in a small fleet of ambulances.  Dirty faces and dirty bodies hidden by even filthier clothes, and all different ages.  It was the youngest ones that made John clench his fists at his sides until his knuckles were white.  
  
"Lestrade," Sherlock said, when they chanced upon the utterly bewildered detective inspector.  
  
"Sherlock," the grey-haired man greeted.  "I don't know how you did it!  It's only been, what, six hours?  All from the mud off the—?"  
  
"Is she here?" Sherlock interrupted.  
  
Lestrade exhaled slowly as he held the detective's gaze.  
  
Sherlock turned away with a cry of something between disgust and frustration and stormed back the way he had come to the waiting taxi.  
  
And in less than six hours it had been over.  Sherlock had single-handedly found and stopped one branch of a large human trafficking operation in England that shipped people across the channel to a horrendous fate, saving countless lives.  
  
But he had failed to find one kidnapped girl.  
  
And so John sat in his chair nursing a cooling cup of tea, while Sherlock paced.  
  
At least the activity helped keep John from falling asleep, because he knew what images would await him when he finally did.  He was man enough to admit that he wasn't in any mood for them.  
  
He looked up suddenly as Sherlock's pacing stopped near the window, and John heard the sound of the violin and bow being lifted delicately out of their case.  
  
John had only over heard Sherlock make noises on the thing akin to strangling a cat, or perhaps a cat pawing at the strings.  He groaned inwardly, but thought at least the noise would keep him awake.  
  
And then to his astonishment, a bold minor chord rang from the instrument and filled the flat.  
  
[First Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gfbThcQ04aE)  
  
He looked up, jaw slackening, as Sherlock played something baroque and passionate.  
  
John watched the deliberate and long movements of the bow, the practiced and confident flight of the fingers across the neck of the instrument, utterly entranced.  The playing was seamless in its perfection, and yet somehow seemed to require effort on Sherlock's part.  But the effort wasn't physical.  
  
As the tune continued John realized that it seemed to be communicating a message.  What exactly it was though, he couldn't tell.  All he had to go on was the fiery intensity with which Sherlock played and the deep concentration on his face.  
  
His eyes were closed for the duration and his brow worked in time with the music, furrowing at particularly intense moments and relaxing slightly at softer ones.  His lips twitched at the unique cadences and parted on the smoother passages.  
  
It was a display from the detective like nothing John had ever seen before.  
  
When the final chord rang out as bold as the first, Sherlock only slightly lifted the bow from the strings as if to continue.  But he didn't, his eyes closed tightly and his face twisted as some conflict raged within him.  
  
He was startled out of the moment as John set his tea down and began to applaud.  The detective almost jumped as he looked around quickly for the source of the sound.  And finding it, his face alternated between a mixture of genuine surprise and irritation.  
  
"Brilliant!" John said, and that exclamation settled Sherlock on the former emotion which then dissolved into a bit of humble dignity as he hovered the bow over the strings.  
  
"You think so?"  
  
"Of course!  What is it?  Baroque isn't it?"  
  
Sherlock's brow rose in surprised appreciation.  "The adagio to Bach's Sonata No. 1."  
  
"What's next?"  
  
For the third time in under a minute John saw that he had surprised Sherlock.  
  
The detective blinked several times, as if convincing himself he had heard correctly.  "You mean...the fugue?"  
  
"Yes," John said, leaning forward in his chair, hands folded comfortable in his lap.  
  
"You would like to hear it?"  
  
"Yes," John nodded, "if you don't mind playing it."  
  
Sherlock began to adjust his stance and then paused, looking at John with sudden openness.  It was a look John had never seen before.  
  
"I couldn't save her.  Even you knew."  
  
John blinked and glanced away to his cold tea at the unpleasant subject change.  He was trying to forget it.  But Sherlock, of all people, seemed to need reassurance.  
  
"No, you couldn't.  But you very nearly managed it anyway.  Everything you did tonight was nothing short of—" he stopped himself on the word he was about to say, and chose another instead, "—amazing."  
  
His words seemed to have the desired effect and Sherlock nodded slightly as he readied the bow again.  But then he stopped and looked at John in confusion.  
  
"If you knew it was impossible then why did you tell the girl's parents that I could work miracles?"    
  
There was the word.  And just like that, they were back to Donovan's vitriol from the night they had met.  
  
"I didn't."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I didn't tell them that.  It wasn't me.  I never spoke to them.  Don't think anyone besides you even knew I was there."  
  
Sherlock's brow rose in understanding as he spoke, but then furrowed on his final statement.  
  
The detective blinked at him, looking as if his tongue was caught on words that he couldn't decide how to articulate.  
  
Finally, he decided not to try and turned his eyes to the fingerboard as he prepared to play.  And then in contrast to the slow, thoughtful tune before it a quick and deliberate melody filled the small room.  
  
But John didn't remember much of that one because he had inexplicably fallen asleep somewhere in the middle of it, to a long and peaceful rest.  But he would always remember that first time he heard Sherlock play.

* * *

  
He was brought out of his memories to the present as the final chord of the adagio rang through the flat.  
  
He leaned back in his chair again, cradling Rosie close and staring at the paper balanced on his knee.  
  
It had been cruel.  He had been cruel.  
  
It wasn't just that he had blamed Sherlock and tried to eject him from his life.  He had wanted to hurt him.  
  
Suddenly, he was startled as an unexpected tune filled the room.  
  
[Songs are...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4ldAkpoX7HI)  
  
John stared with furrowed brow as Sherlock played the melody that they both associated only with The Woman.  Why was he playing that?  
  
Reaching the cadence, he stopped abruptly and began playing a different melody. *****   This one, John had never heard before.  
  
It was a mere five notes, four of them repeated, and like all of Sherlock's compositions the emphasis was on the off-beat.  
  
Sherlock was watching him now, his eyes demanding.  
  
Two long, slow notes led into the tune again as it was repeated.  It reminded John of a disjointed 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.'  He finally sighed and took the bait.  
  
"Who is that, then?"  Because it must be someone.  He had easily deduced there was no other reason for Sherlock to have played The Woman's melody but to alert him that he was about to play a person.  
  
"Molly," was the simple answer as Sherlock turned away from him and stepped to the darkened window again.  
  
John listened intently now and noted not the similarities between this and his friend's other compositions, but the differences.  The most startling of which being the even rhythms and the major tonality.  
  
This tune wasn't haunting and sharp in the way the others were.  But it was sad, delicate, and sweet.  
  
And unfinished.  
  
John knew enough about music to realize that it never resolved, and he shifted in his chair as he contemplated what possible meanings, subconscious or otherwise, that could mean.  
  
"When...did you write this?"  
  
Sherlock stopped playing abruptly and turned back to face him.  
  
"When I returned from Serbia."  
  
John opened his mouth in an 'oh' but no sound came out, as he tried to guess at what Sherlock's motivation may have been at that time.  
  
"This isn't about me," Sherlock said suddenly, drawing his attention back.  
  
"What?" John said.  
  
Sherlock threw him a slight grin, and then launched into a solo version of what is formally known and never called _'An der schönen blauen Donau.'_  
  
The tune could conjure but one memory for John, and he realized then that Sherlock knew that.  
  
"You're doing this on purpose," he stated, shifting Rosie to his other shoulder.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock replied.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Infuriatingly, all the detective did was look at him with 'the face' before turning back to the window as he continued to play.  
  
John considered seriously—something he should have started doing years ago—if he should follow Sherlock in on this one.  
  
But his whimpering daughter in his arms distracted his attention and left him little choice in the matter as a rather unique memory surfaced without permission.  
  
At the window, Sherlock was recalling the exact same thing.

* * *

  
"A 'first dance' is traditional, will you be doing that?" Sherlock asked.  
  
John and Mary exchanged a glance, and then John nodded at Sherlock from his chair.  "Of course."  
  
"And what style will you be dancing?" Sherlock asked, his pen poised.  
  
John furrowed his brow.  "Does it matter?"  
  
"Of course.  The first dance will determine how the rest of the dancing will progress."  
  
John wondered to himself when in the course of his career Sherlock Holmes had had time to become an expert on wedding proceedings.  But his bride-to-be interrupted his thoughts.  
  
"John," Mary looked up excitedly from her magazine spread on the sofa, "what about a waltz?  I've always imagined myself waltzing at my wedding!"  
  
John looked...nervous, to Sherlock's view, from the way his head sank further back into the chair.  "All right," was his answer, however.  
  
Sherlock looked at Mary, who was already thumbing through the playlist on her phone.  And then with a horribly distorted quality of sound, Strauss's famous waltz began to play through the tiny speakers.  
  
[Memory 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSulONzgewQ)  
  
"Dance with me, John!" Mary exclaimed, rising and holding out her hands.  
  
"Uh..." fell from his lips, and his head sank back further into the chair.  But then he swallowed and pushed himself up.  "All right."  
  
Mary's delighted laugh rang through the small room, but Sherlock could only watch in stupefied amazement at the tangle of feet that was stepping across the worn carpet and newspapers and his opera house serviettes.  
  
Mary wasn't totally without ability, but John's skills were appalling.  He was competent enough to know where downbeats fell, but clearly he had never tried to move his feet in three-four time before.  Not to mention that the introduction of the piece was the worst part to attempt to dance to.  
  
Despite John's staring down the entire time, it wasn't long before one of his feet came down on Mary's toes.  
  
"Oh!" she said with a giggle, completely oblivious to her fiance's lack of skill.  
  
The third time it happened though, Mary let her arms drop from around John as she massaged her toes.  
  
"Sorry," John said worriedly.  
  
Sherlock furrowed his brow.  John's concern about his inadequacy was plain for anyone to see.  It was amazing that Mary had missed it.  
  
Sherlock set his pen down and stood.  "Mary, if you and John are to dance a waltz he is going to need to learn where to put his feet.  Didn't they require you to learn some core control in the army?"  
  
"Oh-ho!" Mary laughed again, gaping at John in amusement.  Her mouth closed however when Sherlock held out his hand to her.  
  
John's jaw fell open, and Mary looked at the detective in amusement.  
  
She curtsied theatrically, and Sherlock bowed politely.  
  
John could do nothing but step back and fall into his chair, and he watched open-mouthed as Sherlock began turning Mary about the room in time with the boisterous music.  
  
"Extreme lightness on the toes is required in a waltz," Sherlock explained clinically as they danced.  "Keep careful track of your step on beat two as it changes your direction.  You use beat three to adjust your weight for the next step into one."  
  
John marveled at the spectacle as Sherlock effortlessly and without error took Mary around the obstacles of the sitting room, even turning in a few circles as he did so.  
  
They stopped abruptly next to the chair.  Mary's back was to John and glancing up he saw Sherlock smile and look into her eyes.  
  
_Looking into her eyes??  Really??_  
  
John continued staring as Sherlock suddenly abandoned Mary and began pushing the coffee table out of the way, tossing clutter from the floor into corners (including the serviettes) and then moved on to his chair and the end table.  
  
"Oi!" John complained when Sherlock dragged his own chair with him in it toward the fireplace and lastly moved his end table.  
  
"Where did you learn to dance so well?" Mary asked, watching Sherlock in interest as he began rolling up the rug.  
  
Sherlock paused in his creation of an impromptu dance floor to glance at her.  "YouTube?" he suggested.  
  
"No...  Try the truth," she said with a chuckle.  
  
"All right," Sherlock sighed as he stood and looked around distractedly for something.  Not finding whatever it was, he strode into the kitchen, and John watched as he wiped his dusty hands on a towel.  
  
Returning to the sitting room he took off his suit jacket and laid it over the back of his chair before turning back to face Mary with barely a glance at John.  
  
"Sherlock?" she reminded him, setting her hands on her hips.  
  
He mirrored her action.  "Junior Ballroom Champion for three years straight until I entered uni," he said.  
  
"Where?" Mary pressed.  
  
Sherlock hesitated.  " _National_ Junior Ballroom Champion."  
  
John was sure his friend was avoiding eye contact deliberately.  
  
"Oh!" Mary was laughing, "and then?"  
  
"And then I got busy," he said, and held out his hand to her again, his face blank.  
  
Mary looked down at John with a mix of amusement and sympathy.  John caught Sherlock's annoyed reaction to that out of the corner of his eye, but he had masked it by the time Mary looked up again.  
  
He adjusted his posture and lifted his arms in what John assumed must be some professional pose.  Mary stepped into it with her own arms raised, and John watched in interest now as she seemed to take more of a serious approach to what Sherlock clearly considered of great import.  
  
"Connection is critical," Sherlock said with a look at John to make sure he was paying attention.  "Your hands must be placed just so, and body contact is maintained through the thigh and midsection.  Contact is right side to right side to facilitate the steps."  
  
"Otherwise you'd have knees colliding," Mary added.  
  
"And where did you acquire your dance skills?" Sherlock asked, looking at Mary.  
  
"I took classes when I was a girl," she said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.  "Couldn't you deduce that?"  
  
Sherlock ignored the question and looked back to John.  "The next point to notice is how the steps are taken, rolling heel to toe."  
  
John looked at their feet, now simply moving back and forth to the music as this had clearly turned into a lesson for him.  They were indeed rolling heel to toe, aligned neatly as they stood offset as Sherlock had described.  
  
John's eyes traveled upward and observed what must be perfect posture, with Mary's right side pressed into Sherlock's, their arms held out and aloft despite their bodies being pressed together.  
  
"Once you are used to changing your feet, you can begin the basic box step," Sherlock continued.  "Notice how Mary's feet create one half of the box while mine create the other."  
  
John was aware of the pattern.  But he suddenly found himself more interested in the way Mary's and Sherlock's bodies never broke contact, pressed tightly together in what seemed to him a very intimate way.  And drawing his eyes upward he also took note of Mary's delighted smile, her eyes not leaving Sherlock's face for an instant.  
  
"After you master the box step you add the turns, so that four box steps brings you in a complete circle," Sherlock continued his instruction, oblivious to John's growing frustration.  
  
Now that there was space on the floor, Sherlock turned Mary around in circles over and over with precision, his feet nearly marking the same steps each time.  John took note of that while trying to slow his elevated pulse and shake the absurd feelings that had come to him unbidden.  
  
There was no person in the world he needed to worry about less with his bride-to-be than Sherlock Holmes.  Well, except perhaps Mycroft Holmes.  
  
And yet...  
  
Sherlock had stopped speaking suddenly as the tempo of the music changed and he focused instead on taking the correct steps.  
  
His face was its usual blank mask but his eyes were on Mary's as she smiled at him as he took her around the room again.  
  
"This step is called a hesitation," he said almost as an aside, as suddenly the three-step pattern disappeared in favor of a two-step pattern at an odd moment of the music.  
  
It was the last Sherlock said for awhile as he apparently indulged himself in the dance.  
  
At another rousing portion of the music he turned Mary under his arm several times in sequence, and John couldn't help but notice that his feet were again marking precise steps on the floor.  He had to of course, to avoid colliding with the furniture.  
  
The thing called a hesitation came back as the music seemed to in fact hesitate, and John frowned despite what his brain told him.  There was no daylight whatsoever visible between Sherlock's and Mary's bodies, and their eyes hadn't left one another's for several minutes now.  
  
John stood up.  
  
The music was in full swing now and Sherlock responded to it in kind, somehow taking Mary over every bare space in the floor, turning and spinning all the while.  
  
They still hadn't broken eye contact.  And John noticed that the corners of Sherlock's mouth were most definitely turned upward.  
  
"Oh!" Mary said as the music reached a pause and Sherlock dipped her dramatically, his smile broadening.  
  
"Right," John said, approaching them, "my turn."  
  
"Don't be absurd," Sherlock said, his eyes still on Mary, "you need practice first."  
  
"What?" John said, thinking that's what he was suggesting.  
  
"Oh, look at him!" Mary said as Sherlock righted them both.  "He's jealous!"  
  
Sherlock blinked in surprise and turned to really look at John.  His pulse and breathing were clearly elevated, his neck and shoulders were tense, and he had his chin dipped in that 'injured wild animal' sort of way that he got when someone he cared about was threatened.  
  
"John!" Mary said, laughing now as she dropped her arms from around Sherlock and stepped away from him.  
  
"I'm not—!" John said, his chin lowering all the more as he looked at Mary and absolutely refused eye contact with Sherlock.  
  
The detective blinked in surprise again, this last being the final proof.  
  
"Oh darling," Mary was saying consolingly now, putting her arms around her fiance, "I'm sure you'll dance wonderfully."  
  
The waltz was winding down and Sherlock stepped away from the couple to stop it playing on the phone.  
  
"You can't waltz to that anyway," he said, shifting the subject back to more comfortable territory.  
  
"Why not?" Mary said, her face falling into a pout.  
  
"Far too long.  Even a short recording like that brings you to nearly ten minutes.  Your guests will already be dying of boredom by that point."  
  
John's brow rose, and Sherlock noticed that he seemed to be recovering.  
  
Mary stepped over and took her phone out of Sherlock's hand and began thumbing through her playlist.  
  
"How about this then?  This could be a waltz," she said, as a soft and thoughtful piano melody began playing through the small speakers.  
  
[Mary's Memory](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p6_sOF2AOGY)  
  
"Oh!" Sherlock groaned after only three seconds and in two steps had reached his chair and sat heavily within it.  
  
"What's wrong with it?"  Mary asked.  
  
Sherlock's only response was a growl and to bury his face in his hands.  He would have to dissuade them from something so utterly elemental.  
  
"But it has violin coming in the next bit, listen.  Oh!  You could play for us!"  
  
Behind his hands Sherlock's eyes opened.  That actually wasn't a bad idea.  But certainly not this garbage.  
  
"Actually," John said, and Sherlock looked up through his fingers, "this doesn't sound much like wedding material."  
  
"I think it's lovely," Mary argued.  
  
"Reminds me more of a funeral," John said.  "It's too sad.  It should be more pleasant, and...shouldn't our first dance song be about us in some way?"  
  
Sherlock looked up fully at this, the wheels in his head already spinning.  
  
"Turn it off," he demanded.  
  
"But it's not even reached the violin bit yet," Mary said.  
  
"I said turn it off," Sherlock growled.  "You will not be waltzing to that."

* * *

  
The final flurry up the fingerboard concluded Sherlock's solo version of The Blue Danube, and John opened his eyes to blink at his friend's back, wondering when exactly he had closed them.  
  
He found suddenly that the memory had put a smile on his face rather than drag him back into despair as he had worried.  
  
He glanced at the paper on his knee again and wondered—was he...starting to get better?  
  
He looked up as Sherlock turned around with hesitant eyes, clearly wondering himself about the effect of his chosen pursuit that evening.  And John saw him relax when he met his own thoughtful eyes.  
  
"What was that horrible piece Mary wanted our dance to be?"  
  
"I don't know and I don't care," Sherlock said, raising the bow to the strings again.  
  
[Memory 3](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zirn3M3ewQc)  
  
"Oh, Sherlock!" John said with a chuckle as he played another familiar tune.  
  
"Look," the detective said with a nod.  
  
John followed his gaze to where Rosie was still nestled against his shoulder, but now watching her godfather's movements with wide-eyed interest.  
  
John's brow rose and he turned her around so she could watch Sherlock directly.  
  
"You like the music?" he asked his daughter softly.  
  
Her expression was one of unblinking awe as she watched the gentle rise and fall of the bow across the strings.  
  
"Who knows?  If you start now she may not turn out a musical simpleton like her father."  
  
"I'm not that bad!" John complained, though he was already grinning.  
  
"No," Sherlock agreed with a smile.

* * *

  
"I knew this was inevitable," John said as he stood in the middle of the sitting room undoing his cuff buttons.  
  
"You'll thank me later," Sherlock said, laying his suit jacket across the back of his chair again, pushed further still out of center of the room almost up to the window.  
  
"I'm grateful already.  I didn't realize how much traditions like this meant to Mary," John said as he rolled his sleeves up.  
  
He had remembered the light pattern of sweat on his fiancee's forehead after her rigorous waltz with Sherlock a few days before and how she positively glowed with delight over the idea of a wedding waltz.  Even though they had yet to agree on a piece of music.  
  
Now with his sleeves secured just above his elbows he hoped to avoid the need to change his shirt after the waltzing lesson, if it ended anything like Mary's and Sherlock's dance had.  
  
Prepared for everything, Sherlock had already connected his phone to an expensive Bluetooth speaker system that was apparently hidden somewhere in the flat.  In sharp contrast to Strauss, something sprightly and swaying filled the flat in high fidelity.  
  
Sherlock was facing him now, his brows raised in question.  
  
"Right," John nodded, suddenly feeling anxious.  He was desperate for lessons, but actually _dancing_ with Sherlock Holmes wasn't exactly high on the list of things he wanted to do in his life.  "What's the music?" he asked, stalling.  
  
"The Skater's Waltz," Sherlock answered.  
  
John listened for a moment, images filling his mind now that he had something to attach to the happy tune that surrounded him.  
  
"Yeah...I can see that."  
  
"It's one of the most famous in the world," Sherlock said, giving him a condescending look.  
  
"I may have heard it before.  I'm not sure."  
  
"Doubtless you have, you just failed to store it properly."  
  
"We can't all have a mind palace," John reminded him.  
  
"You could," Sherlock said encouragingly.  
  
"Yeah.  But right now, waltzing," John said with a slight edge.  
  
Sherlock gave him that raised-brow look of question again.  John hated that he was so transparent.  
  
"Right," he said again, steadying himself.  "So my hands go where?"  
  
Sherlock began instructing him on the posture and form of the waltz, how his rib cage needed to be flexible and separate from the rest of him, how his shoulders needed to be lifted, and how the eyes should always follow the direction of the step.  John didn't mention that Sherlock himself hadn't been following that last bit when dancing with Mary.  
  
"Good," Sherlock commented on his posture and the position of his hands.  "Now our bodies need remain in contact from mid-thigh through the diaphragm."  
  
John's brow rose.  Sherlock looked at him with 'the face.'  
  
John swallowed and stepped into the same closeness of contact he had observed a few days prior...and immediately stepped back again, dropping his hands and looking down at his shoes.  
  
"John," Sherlock complained with hands on his hips.  
  
"Look," John said, glancing up, "can't I learn the steps first and add the proper positioning later?"  
  
Sherlock looked like he was going to argue, but then inexplicably let the matter drop.  
  
"I suppose," was his response, and he straightened and waited.  
  
John blinked at him.  
  
"As you will be leading, you must raise your arms first," Sherlock explained.  
  
"Oh.  Sorry," John said, and tried to assume the proper posture.  
  
"Good," Sherlock commented, and stepped into position without the body contact.  "Now begin with your left foot and just try going forwards for four measures and then back."  
  
After several minutes, countless attempts, and a number of demands that he not look at his feet, John finally felt like he was moving competently.  Apparently, Sherlock agreed, because he broke proper form to look at him and give further instruction.  
  
"Now try the box step.  Step forward with your left, then to the side with your right, and then bring your feet together.  Then reverse the pattern—no!  Don't look at your feet!"  
  
John's eyes snapped up to meet Sherlock's at the sharp admonishment.  
  
"Sorry," he said for what felt like the tenth time, and probably was.  At least he had only managed to step on Sherlock's toes twice thus far.  
  
Sherlock sighed uncharacteristically and stepped back, letting his hands fall.  
  
John looked at him uncertainly.  "Sherlock?"  
  
"Try it without me," Sherlock said with resignation.  
  
"Uh...okay," John said.  
  
"But do straighten up," Sherlock complained, his hands on his hips again.  
  
John lifted his entire upper body—that was what it had come to feel like—and with his arms now at his sides attempted the box step under his friend's critical eye.  
  
"No, you're waiting to hear the music.  You have to anticipate the beat and step into it."  
  
"What if it changes?"  
  
"This one won't much," Sherlock muttered, staring at John's feet.  
  
"Is that why you chose it?"  
  
"Mm," Sherlock nodded.  "Ideal for you to learn."  
  
"Mary and I aren't waltzing to this either," John said, following what he thought was the natural train of Sherlock's thoughts.  
  
"No," Sherlock said, surprising John.  "Your steps are too diagonal.  Really try to follow the perpendicular lines of the box."  
  
As John cautiously looked down at his feet and attempted to follow instructions, he wondered if the 'no' was just about his continued mistakes or if Sherlock actually agreed that this would be a horrible first dance for his wedding.  
  
He stopped and looked up, surprising Sherlock.  "Actually...it's more difficult without you," he admitted.  
  
"Of course.  It's not meant to be done alone."  
  
John sighed and lifted his arms, and Sherlock stepped back into frame with him.  
  
"Don't look down and step _into_ the beat," Sherlock reminded him.  
  
"Yeah.  I think I've got it."  
  
After about six fumbling boxes and ten consecutive successful ones, he found himself relaxing.  It wasn't that difficult, and he didn't feel nearly as awkward as he had thought he would.  He didn't know why he would anyway, considering it was Sherlock.  Everything the man did was clinical and precise.  
  
"Still jealous?" Sherlock said suddenly, looking at him with a smirk and shattering his thoughts.  
  
To his credit, John only faltered slightly in his box step.  
  
"I said I was sorry!"  
  
"I suppose I should be flattered, though, I would be moreso if it were my dancing skills that inspired your resentment."  
  
John sighed loudly.  "I know...I have no reason to be jealous, but it's just...it's instinct."  
  
"You would do well to lose that particular one where Mary is concerned.  As the saying goes, she only has eyes for you."  
  
John was surprised that Sherlock got that turn of phrase correctly.  
  
"Does she?" John asked, looking back at his friend.  
  
"Of course.  Now, it's time to rotate the box."  
  
"What?" John said, and he realized suddenly that he had been successfully dancing without thinking about it.  
  
Sherlock smirked knowingly.  "You need to learn to turn.  Or do you want to dance in one spot at your wedding?"  
  
They stopped dancing as Sherlock explained reverse and natural turns, leaving John scratching his head when he was finished.  
  
"I...don't know if I can do that."  
  
"You'll be fine.  It just takes practice."  
  
They resumed the position with Sherlock giving him precise instructions on when and how to step each time, and he practiced several quarter turns with complete boxes in between.  
  
"You know, I've got a new respect for people who do this on a regular basis," John said a few minutes later.  
  
Sherlock suddenly dropped his hands and stepped away to undo his own shirt cuffs.  John had noticed his friend's temperature increasing the more they practiced.  
  
"How long did it take you to learn?"  
  
"Years.  Lucky for you though, I'll be the only professional dancer at your wedding."  
  
"I just don't want to look incompetent.  Have I reached that stage yet?"  
  
"Nearly," Sherlock said, suddenly walking past John and into the kitchen, "but you still need to learn the rise and fall if you don't want to look too stiff."  
  
"Rise and fall?"  
  
Sherlock poured two tall glasses of water from the tap, drank one down, and began refilling it.  John joined him and drank gratefully from the other glass.  
  
"Yes," Sherlock said once he'd gulped down the second glass and began refilling it again.  "There's also the swing and sway, but I think that will be asking too much."  
  
John didn't know which of the two new aspects Sherlock had named sounded worse, but he trusted his friend to know and was glad he was drawing a line somewhere.  
  
John refilled his own glass as Sherlock had apparently decided it was time for a break.  The music, which for the most part he had ignored, changed suddenly and he suppressed a chuckle at what was clearly intended to be a humorous cadence.  
  
"So how long do you think it will be before I'm good enough for my wedding?"  
  
Sherlock looked him over in that way he did when deducing someone's life.  John was pleased that for once it didn't cause him to flinch.  
  
"You're actually making excellent progress," Sherlock said after a moment.  
  
John brightened.  "I am?"  
  
"Mm.  With regular practice to maintain your skills, you should be in good form in time for the wedding."  
  
John sipped from his glass, not gulping it down as Sherlock had, and looked at the sitting room with all of its furniture pushed aside.  
  
"Thanks for this," he said, looking up to meet his friend's eyes again.  
  
Sherlock lifted his brow in mock surprise.  "Of course.  What a best man's for."  
  
The detective set his half-full fourth glass of water down and made his way back into the sitting room as the music was ending.  John finished his second glass in one large swallow and moved to follow.  
  
"You may be the first best man in history who has taught the groom how to waltz, though."  
  
"Balance of probability suggests otherwise," Sherlock said, and waited again for John to lift his arms.  
  
He did so just as a different track of music began playing.  
  
[Songs are... 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmCnQDUSO4I)  
  
Abruptly John dropped his hands and his jaw slackened as he listened to the opening bars of the new waltz piece.  And within moments, silent chuckles began building in his abdomen.  
  
Sherlock dropped his hands.  "What?"  
  
John's laughter came first in giggles, and then burst forth in great uncontrollable guffaws.  
  
"What?  What's so funny?" Sherlock asked, quite distressed now to have missed the joke.  
  
"It's nothing it's just—" John began, but gave up as another ripple of laughter escaped him.  
  
"What?" Sherlock demanded.  
  
"It's, um..." John wiped tears from his eyes, "it's just this music."  
  
"What about it?" Sherlock asked suspiciously.  
  
"It's so..." John lifted a hand and gestured to his friend, "you."  
  
Sherlock frowned and shook his head.  "I don't understand."  
  
John saw the embarrassment creeping into his friend's features, which only served to broaden his grin.  "If someone was going to describe you with a piece of music, this would be it."  
  
Sherlock's forehead creased in annoyance and he held out one hand, and John, still chuckling, stepped into the proper position.  
  
"Try a natural turn this time," Sherlock said.  
  
"Clockwise, you mean?"  
  
"Obviously."  
  
John swallowed and tried to ignore the music, as clearly his good humor wasn't transferring to his friend.  
  
On the very first step however, his right knee collided hard with Sherlock's left and his foot came down on his friend's toes.  
  
"Ah, no!" Sherlock cried as he reached down to rub his knee.  
  
"Sorry.  What did I do wrong?"  
  
"You can't try to avoid your partner, you have to step into them and trust them to follow."  
  
"But if I step into you—"  
  
"Just—" Sherlock interrupted, and then John watched him take a long breath to calm himself.  "Try again."  
  
John tentatively took up the posture again and attempted to follow instructions.  But whether it was the more boisterous music or the simple fact that they had reversed directions, he seemed to have lost all of the progress he had made previously.  
  
"I don't understand," he said after his knee had hit Sherlock's for the fifth time.  
  
"When you were going to the left you didn't have to worry about stepping into me," Sherlock explained.  "It would be easier with the proper connections, then the parallel tracks of the feet would be more apparent.  And you wouldn't be able to step around my leg like that."  
  
John took a moment to process what 'proper connections' meant, and despite himself a flush rose to his cheeks when he understood.  
  
Sherlock was sitting against the edge of his desk, rubbing his knee again and examining the toe of his right shoe which had been the recipient of much abuse in the last minute.  
  
John made his decision.  It was for Mary, after all.  
  
"Right then.  Maybe if I get used to it first on the reverse turns?" he said, lifting his arms in determination.  
  
Sherlock looked up, surprised, and stepped back into the position he'd already been occupying with several inches of space between them, waiting.  
  
John swallowed and adjusted the angle of his elbow and reached further on Sherlock's shoulder blade so as to pull him into what Sherlock had described earlier as the proper connections.  
  
"Is this right?" he asked, holding his breath.  It was very disconcerting to have his thigh and midsection and everything in between pressed up against his friend, even if they were standing off-center as was correct waltz framing.  
  
Sherlock gave him a look.  "John.  We are two straight men who have been dancing together for the past fifteen minutes.  Does this really make much difference?"  
  
John blinked and glanced away as another flush crept onto his cheeks against his will.  He looked back when he heard Sherlock sigh and caught the man's eyes rolling toward the ceiling.  
  
"Just...think how much you'll enjoy it when it's Mary."  
  
At that, John narrowed his eyes.  
  
"And stop being jealous, for heaven's sake!" Sherlock said.  
  
John sighed and shook his head, giving in to the absurdity of it all rather than the discomfort.  
  
"Right then.  Reverse turns?"  
  
"And we'll be touching less once we're in motion," Sherlock said.  
  
John found that to be quite encouraging and stepped back on the very next downbeat.  
  
The music, whatever it was, he found impossible to ignore as he had the previous piece for how distinctly it reminded him of his friend.  Despite his initial discomfort he found himself grinning again as he listened and practiced the easier reverse turns.  
  
"Good," Sherlock commented after several successes, though now his gaze was oddly hesitant.  "When you're ready change to natural turns."  
  
John did so almost immediately, and they continued the waltz with little commentary from Sherlock as he practiced the turns at his leisure, finding that it did in fact come easier with their bodies connected.  He shouldn't have been surprised that his friend was right.  
  
"Now the rise and fall."  
  
"The what?"  
  
"You've nearly got it on your own."  
  
They stopped and Sherlock explained the motion that would make the dance look more flowing and less robotic, and John realized that he had been bobbing up and down with the steps already—though he didn't dare describe it as such to Sherlock.  
  
This time they hadn't completed one box before John stopped as he burst out laughing.  
  
"John!"    
  
"Sorry, it's just—" he giggled "—this music!"  
  
Sherlock was now the one blushing as John held out his hands again.  
  
Somehow, an embarrassed Sherlock was encouraging and his steps were more confident.  He even predicted a pause in the music correctly and used it to attempt something Sherlock hadn't yet explained to him—a turn under his arm.  
  
Sherlock followed through, but his head collided with John's arm.  
  
"Don't experiment, John."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
When they resumed the posture again John was still chuckling as they took the first step.  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "Oh, for the love of—"  
  
"It really is _you_ , you know."  
  
"Shut up."  
  
John danced confidently as the tune wrapped itself up, forgoing protocol to grin at Sherlock all the while.  The detective glared at him in return, which only incited John to laugh aloud.  
  
"It's a highly respected waltz!" Sherlock protested.  
  
"You sure it wasn't written for you?" John giggled.  
  
Disobeying again, John boldly stepped forward and dipped Sherlock low on the final chord, much to his friend's shock.  
  
John laughed more at Sherlock's wide-eyed expression, pleased to have caught him off-guard.  
  
And at that moment, the door to the hallway opened.  
  
"Hoo-hoo!"  
  
Both of the men's heads whipped around toward the door and took in Mrs Hudson's stunned expression.  
  
And then John let go.  
  
"Ow!" Sherlock whined as his body, elbows, and head hit the floor in a succession of thumps.  
  
"Mrs Hudson!" John gasped at almost the same moment.  
  
The woman in question blinked several times in surprise and then shook her head disapprovingly.  
  
"Oh, John!  And you getting married next month!"  
  
"No, Mrs Hudson, it's not—"  
  
The woman had already turned and was starting back down the stairs, reprimanding him all the way.  "If I catch you at anything like this again young man..."  
  
John took a few slow breaths to calm his heart rate, and then quickly crossed to the door and closed it.  
  
When he turned around his face fell further at the sight of his friend slowly drawing his knees up, still laying on his back.  
  
"Oh..." he hurried back over and looked down at his friend, whose expression was venomous.  "Sorry!"  
  
"I told you _not_ to experiment."  
  
"I'm so sorry," John repeated, and reached down to give Sherlock a hand up.  
  
The detective rose with less than his usual grace and rubbed the back of his head.  
  
"Sherlock?" John asked anxiously when after several seconds his friend's expression still hadn't cleared.  
  
"Well, you and Mary certainly won't be waltzing to that."  
  
"No..." John agreed, still watching his friend worriedly.  
  
Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket and scrolled rapidly through his playlist.  
  
"Something slower now, I think," he said.  
  
"You mean you...want to continue?" John said in surprise.  
  
"Just one more, now that you have a bit of skill and confidence," Sherlock replied as he clicked on a song.  
  
A bright, solo violin tune sang from the speakers and John listened to it curiously.  
  
Sherlock sighed and shrugged off his irritation as he moved to face John again, his brow raised expectantly.  And rather tiredly now, John noticed.  
  
"What's this?" John asked, still listening to the unique tune.  
  
"Something new."  
  
John blinked curiously as he held out his hands.  He didn't balk this time when Sherlock joined him in proper framing, and he stepped back comfortably into a reverse turn.  Whatever the tune was, it was distinctly slower than the previous two they had practiced with and it was much easier to direct his steps.  
  
"We should have started with this," he commented after executing a number of turns.  
  
"Mm," Sherlock disagreed, shaking his head.  "Too little emphasis on the downbeats, would have been confusing."  
  
John realized that Sherlock was right and it wouldn't have been useful to learn that way.  But it was still a fun piece to move to, having its own sense of leading without the strong downbeats.  And suddenly, the melody departed from its simple major progression into something more complex.  He didn't know how to describe it in musical terms, but it caught his ear much more than the full orchestral pieces that they had been dancing to before had done.  
  
And suddenly understanding struck.  
  
"Is...that you playing?" he asked, breaking form to look at Sherlock.  
  
He watched his friend blink a few times before nodding distractedly.  
  
"Mm," was the simple acknowledgement.  
  
"Did you write it?"  
  
"Mm," Sherlock hummed again.  
  
John listened as the melody rose to what was obviously its climax and let the clear simple tones wash over him.  
  
"It's lovely," he said after a few moments.  
  
Sherlock finally turned and focused his eyes on John's.  "You think so?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
The discomfort melted out of Sherlock's eyes and the corners of his mouth turned ever-so-slightly upward.  
  
"Thank you," he said.  
  
As quickly as the piece had begun it was over, and John found himself simply standing in the middle of the sitting room holding his chuffed friend far too close.  
  
"Ah...is that all, then?"  
  
"For today," Sherlock said, stepping back and letting his arms slowly fall.  
  
"Yeah," John said, rolling his left shoulder back several times, "can't do that for too long."  
  
"No.  You'll start to forget the techniques."  
  
John listened as Sherlock verbally reviewed everything they had gone over, nodding at the appropriate times so his friend knew he understood.  And when they had finished Sherlock did something he had never done before.  
  
He opened the calendar on his phone.  
  
"When can you come again without Mary?"  
  
John quickly looked at his own calendar.  "Uh...day after tomorrow, looks like, around three?"  
  
Sherlock noted the appointment in his phone.  "Wear better shoes."  
  
John looked down at his trainers and frowned.  
  
"Hey, Sherlock?" he asked as his friend suddenly breezed past him into the kitchen, making for his water glass again.  
  
"Hm?" he acknowledged, glancing back.  
  
"That thing you wrote, what's it called?"  
  
"Doesn't have a title yet.  Still a work in progress."  
  
"Could we use that one the next time?"  
  
Sherlock gazed at him from across the room.  "If you like."

* * *

  
Sherlock hadn't played it yet.  
  
He had stopped after his rendition of the Shostakovich, and now the bow rested at his side.  
  
John only saw this peripherally as his eyes were fixed on the rumpled paper on his knee.  
  
The waltz Sherlock had written for his and Mary's wedding that he had desecrated after her death, trying to eliminate every reminder of his friend from his life.  
  
The waltz that never had another title, except being for Mary and him.  
  
The song that had been composed with such care to reflect his and Mary's love for one another.  
  
Cruelty wasn't something he went in for in his life.  But giving the waltz back, and what he had written, had most certainly been cruel.  
  
Frowning, he turned his gaze toward the fire.  
  
He still couldn't stop the tears from coming each time he thought of Mary, and for the sake of his health he had stopped trying.  Her loss had created an emptiness in him that he doubted could ever be filled again.  
  
But the loneliness and isolation he was feeling now he had created himself.  
  
It was comfortable and safe to return there, and not have to face his feelings each time they surfaced.  It was easier to hide the tears in public and know that in private his friends would just leave him be.  
  
Except it couldn't go on forever.  
  
He couldn't be the father Rosie needed if he kept living in the past.  
  
Sitting in his lap, his young daughter had started crying again now that the music had stopped.  
  
_'From the day we met you've been ruining my life.  Stay out of it!'_  
  
He read the words over again, remembered the agony he had been in when he wrote them.  Remembered trying to shut out those few final minutes he had had with Mary and wanting to relive them at the same time.  
  
And most of all remembered how much he hated himself for what he had done.  
  
Mary had deserved better.  And Rosie deserved better now.  
  
He shifted her around to rest her head on his shoulder again and resumed patting her back as she cried longingly.  
  
A single tear slid down his cheek as he stared into the fire.  
  
How could he get on with his life when everyone he cared about deserved so much better than he was capable of offering?  
  
"John?"  
  
The soft, silken baritone voice arrested his attention and he blinked away his remaining tears before looking up to meet his friend's gaze.  
  
"You'll never be alone."  
  
John closed his eyes tightly to block out the honesty in his friend's voice.  He certainly didn't deserve such devotion.  
  
"Loneliness, however," Sherlock continued, and John met his eyes again, "is something you choose."  
  
John's brow creased as he gazed upon his friend.  
  
Sherlock's expression was open, yet hesitant.  
  
John thought again how he wasn't any good for those he cared about, if he was forcing Sherlock so far out of his emotional comfort zone.  
  
Rosie's cries grew more insistent, and John began rocking her as he pat her back.  
  
"John."  
  
He looked up again into his friend's eyes which were now limpid pools of worry.  
  
"Don't choose that for yourself."  
  
John blinked and looked away into the fire again, and then back to the paper on his knee.  
  
Furrowing his brow, he secured Rosie with one hand and in the other he snatched up the paper as he rose from his chair.  
  
He took several breaths to steady himself and then threw the paper into the fire.  
  
As it burned tears filled his eyes anew.  
  
"Go on then," he said hoarsely, glancing sharply at Sherlock.  
  
"Are you sure?" his friend said hesitantly.  
  
"Yes," he hissed, shifting Rosie again as her cries grew louder.  He turned and faced his friend with a frown.  
  
Tentatively, Sherlock lifted the bow to the strings and began to play.  
  
[The one that counts.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mVgiuIyINfA)  
  
As the high, sweet tones filled the room a sob finally escaped his throat.  He closed his eyes against the pain the melody brought him.  
  
"John," Sherlock's voice interrupted quietly, and he blinked in confusion until his friend nodded toward his shoulder.  
  
Rosie had stopped crying again and was watching Sherlock with interest.  
  
As the melody descended the small girl's face bloomed into a smile, and a delighted giggle escaped her lips.  
  
"Well," John said roughly, "she knows quality when she hears it."  
  
A ghost of a smile passed over Sherlock's features and then he closed his eyes as the piece began its second pass through the theme.  
  
John wondered what memories went through his friend's mind as he played the waltz, and as Rosie giggled against his shoulder he began to sway back and forth with her in time.  
  
Almost subconsciously he began to move his feet in the familiar three-four pattern Sherlock had taught him not even two years prior.  And when the piece reached its climax he stepped out from between the chairs into a turn that his brain had nearly forgotten but his body remembered.  
  
Rosie giggled again, and as John completed the simple pattern of footwork he saw Sherlock watching him in surprise.  
  
"Maybe if I start her now," he said softly, "she could be the National Junior Ballroom Champion."  
  
Sherlock smiled.  
  
Instead of playing the coda he started the piece over from the beginning.  
  
[The one that counts. 2](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GeGZhJ-lpAo)  
  
John closed his eyes and let come what may as he waltzed his daughter around the room.  
  
The tears flowed freely down his cheeks as he remembered his and Mary's first dance and many others shared privately in their flat over the months, one of which particularly memorable for how often he collided with her third-trimester bump.  
  
But as he felt his daughter's breathing regulate and her squirming still in his arms, the tears stopped.  
  
Sherlock was right.  It would be selfish of him to choose loneliness when he had so many people who were waiting to save him from it.  
  
About the third time through the piece John was startled back to awareness by Sherlock's voice.  
  
"And how is Mary this evening?"  
  
John swallowed down the lump in his throat and answered honestly.  
  
"She says I shouldn't bully you into forgiving me."  
  
Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise.  
  
"John..."  
  
"And she's right.  It's about time I faced my life like a man."  
  
Sherlock blinked several times in quick succession and continued playing.  
  
"John... I was never offended."  
  
John looked up in surprise, but continued to dance his daughter in a small circle.  
  
"How could you not be, after what I did?"  
  
Sherlock considered that.  "I...don't know," he answered honestly.  
  
_"He wasn't offended but he was hurt,"_ Mary's spectre said suddenly, startling John out of the impromptu waltz.  
  
She had taken Sherlock's vacated seat at the desk and was leaning forward in a very Sherlock-like pose with her hands folded and her expression twisted into a knowing smirk.  
  
"Ah..." Sherlock said, reading the situation easily.  "What is her analysis?"  
  
John swallowed again and looked up at Sherlock, his feet finally coming to rest a few feet in front of his friend.  
  
"She says you're being honest, but...you were hurt."  
  
Sherlock didn't miss a beat as he played through the waltz again.  
  
"Shouldn't this ghost only be able to read _your_ mind?"  
  
"I'm sorry," John said earnestly.  "I...there's so many things I shouldn't have done."  
  
"What's past is past," Sherlock said offhandedly.  
  
_"He means it.  He doesn't quite understand it himself, but he means it, so stop worrying.  But don't go putting your foot in it again."_  
  
John grinned slightly at Mary's humor, and then looked at Rosie, finally asleep on his shoulder as the tune came to an end.  
  
"Could you record that again?  Maybe I can play it for Rosie.  As a lullaby, sometimes."  
  
Sherlock's face relaxed again.  He stepped back to the desk and set the violin in its case, but then hesitated with his hand above the back of the chair.  
  
"May I?"

John's breath hitched, but then he released it slowly.  The chair was empty.  
  
"She's gone."  
  
Sherlock sat slowly, watching John carefully.  
  
John looked away into the fire and carefully sat in his armchair, mindful of Rosie.  
  
"Does...she come often?"  
  
John blinked several times as tears threatened to fill his eyes again.  But this time he mastered them.  
  
"Not as much as she used to," he said, huffing out a breath.  "Only...when I'm not being honest with myself."  
  
He glanced sidelong at Sherlock, holding his breath.  
  
Sherlock pressed his hands together as he leaned forward on his knees and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement before he too looked away into the fire.  
  
John followed his gaze.  There was no remnant of the paper anymore, burned to ash and lost amid the glowing coals.  
  
It was right that the distortion he had added to the page was destroyed.  The paper itself barely mattered.  The song lived in his heart, and finally, he could let it play now it was pure again—a symbol of his and Mary's love.  
  
And in his arms slept another, pure beyond description.  
  
Someday, he knew, Rosie would ask about her favorite lullaby.  And he would tell her their story.  
  
"Did you...ever talk to me?"  
  
John's brow furrowed as he looked back at the strangely hesitant expression of his friend.  And then he realized...  
  
"No," he exhaled, shifting and crossing his legs.  He forbade thoughts of those two years to come.  "No, I...  I was alone.  Until I met Mary."  
  
Sherlock stood, frowning, and after picking up the violin again he sat across from John in his own armchair.  
  
"But," John continued, and Sherlock looked up from the strings, his gaze expectant.  John sniffed in amusement as one corner of his mouth turned up.  "You're right."  
  
Sherlock's brow furrowed in confusion.  
  
"I won't choose to be.  Not anymore."  
  
The other corner of John's mouth joined the first as he watched Sherlock attempt to mask his relief.  The man sat forward and lifted the violin to his shoulder again, but paused when John lifted a hand to stop him.  
  
"You don't...have to.  You don't have to do anything.  This is enough," John said, settling comfortably back into his chair.  
  
For a split second an embarrassed smile graced Sherlock's face as understanding dawned.  But still he sat forward and positioned the violin, taking great care in the initial placement of his fingers.  He closed his eyes and let the bow hover over the strings.  
  
The only sound in the flat was the popping of the wood in the fire as John waited, wondering.  Then after a long, measured sigh, Sherlock began to play.  
  
John stroked the ends of Rosie's curls as he listened.  This was a new melody.  It was as entrancing as anything he had heard Sherlock play before, and seemed to be a study in contrast with its alternating quick rhythms and long, slow tones.  It moved in and out of major and minor structures in total unpredictability, and yet, it all fit together perfectly.  
  
John closed his eyes and listened in silence, trying to picture something to go with the piece.  But nothing came.  
  
Suddenly it stopped, seemingly mid-phrase, and he opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock who was watching him and holding his breath, the bow still hovering over the strings.  
  
[0:07-1:49 Pause reading and listen in real time.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRwtO6EmvZM)  
  
"What's that?"  
  
Sherlock blinked nervously.  John favored him with his own version of 'the face'.  
  
Sherlock spoke his next word deliberately, with clear enunciation at the start and finish.  And yet, he was hesitant.  
  
"Us."  
  
John's eyes widened.  His mouth formed a soundless 'oh' as Sherlock stayed utterly still.  
  
"Why...did you stop?"  
  
Sherlock swallowed, still holding his breath.  "It's not finished."  
  
John cleared his throat and let his expression relax.  
  
"Well.  Keep on then."  
  
Sherlock hadn't seemed prepared for that response, his eyes suddenly searching for something to focus on.  
  
"Or at least breathe, Sherlock."  
  
Startled, Sherlock exhaled and continued glancing around with anachronistic uncertainty.  
  
"I like it," John said.  
  
Sherlock glanced at him.  "Not sure what's supposed to come next."  
  
"That's not like you."  
  
Sherlock grimaced.  "More common than you'd think."  
  
"Well..." John sighed and leaned his cheek gently against Rosie's head.  "You'll...have to solve it, then."  
  
The bow still hovered over the strings.  "Not sure I know how anymore.  Not sure I ever did," he said, glancing at John.  
  
John pulled a face that he thought would have made Mary proud.  "Of course you do.  It's..." he sighed, "just that I won't let you."  
  
Sherlock lifted his brow as he shook his head in disagreement.  "Lacking in essential skills."  
  
He started to lower the bow.  
  
"Rosie disagrees with you."  
  
Sherlock narrowed his eyes first on the sleeping girl and then on John.  
  
"So go on," John nodded at the instrument.  "Show me.  What's next?"  
  
Sherlock shifted back in the chair.  "Really?" he said disbelievingly  
  
"Yeah," John nodded again.  He rested his head against the back of the chair and waited, watching his friend from beneath half-closed eyelids.  "I'm ready."  
  
Sherlock adjusted his posture, and with as much care and precision as the first time, he began to play.   
  
As the tune filled the four walls of the small flat, vivid memories sprang to life in John's mind.  He nodded again to Sherlock, who accepted the reassurance and in doing so brought further life to the piece.  The unpredictability John had sensed before suddenly coalesced into one single, complex melody that told a story with every rhythm, every articulation, and every dynamic.  It was a piece simply too complex to be truly understood by its small phrases individually, reflective of a story that had been equally complex from its beginning to the present.  
  
Getting that knowing feeling, John slowly opened one eye and then the other.  Mary stood just over Sherlock's shoulder.  
  
John grimaced.  Being careful not to wake Rosie, he slid his hand into his pocket for his mobile.  He opened the app for his blog and stared at the title of the newest entry.  
  
He knew without looking that Sherlock was watching him, but he did glance up over his shoulder at Mary.  She nodded, smiling at him with confidence.  
  
He pressed the 'delete' button and watched the lie he had been telling himself vanish as if it had never existed.  
  
He raised his brow at Mary expectantly.  She smiled encouragingly and then nodded down at Sherlock, his eyes now on the strings as he played with passion.  
  
John closed his eyes for a moment and let a silent sigh escape through his nose.  "Right," he whispered and leaned forward, staring at his friend intently.  
  
Sherlock favored him with a curious look, but continued playing.  
  
"From the day we met..." John began.  
  
Sherlock faltered for just an instant, glancing away and taking a quick breath before turning back to John with authority.  
  
"No," John cut him off even as he opened his mouth to speak.  "No," he continued more softly, "I'm going to say this."  
  
Sherlock adopted his expression of tolerance, and John leaned farther forward to get his attention, Rosie's face pressing into the side of his neck.  
  
"From the day we met," John shook his head in awe, "you...have been saving my life.  You are still the best and the wisest man I have ever known.  And I couldn't live a day—mm," he paused, choosing his words carefully and deliberately.   
  
Sherlock reached the same point in the music as he had before and stopped mid-phrase, the bow hovering in anticipation.  
  
"I don't want to even... _imagine_ a day...without that song," he finished, looking meaningfully at the instrument.  
  
John saw peripherally that Mary had vanished.  Sherlock was looking at him cautiously as if judging the veracity of his words.  
  
"And I want to hear the rest of it," he finished decisively, settling back in his chair again.  
  
This time when Sherlock pressed the bow to the strings the sound that emerged wasn't a repeat of the previous melody, but a joyful transformation.  John looked at him with 'the face' and finally, after a flurry up the fingerboard his friend acknowledged him with a respectful nod.  He then closed his eyes and continued the improvisation, the melody now ripe with excitement and anticipation.   
  
John closed his eyes and smiled.  
  
[0:07-end. Songs are people.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vRwtO6EmvZM)

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Don't read the notes until your mind and emotions are properly...whatever. Give yourself time!
> 
> Okay then. So I actually wrote this in February immediately after S4 premiered. Why was it not published then? Well, if you're one of my regular readers you know that my computer died and _this completed fic_ was trapped on there. Along with many other WIPs. ARGH. This one fic was the one I was most upset about, because I had literally been going to publish it the day the computer died. But, all's well that ends well.
> 
> The one problem is...I never saved the link to my inspiration. It was a tumblr post. I cannot remember the user. And then I went tumblr-dark from right after S4 until just recently, and I didn't like/reblog that post so I can't find it. But basically, the person said 'what if John's letter at the end of TST was written on the waltz?' and my brain went BOOM and this fic happened. So to whoever that person was out there on tumblr, thank you for the inspiration. The credit for the letter being written on the sheet music goes to you.
> 
> That letter, and learning to dance, have become such huge fandom tropes that I decided to combine them into one fic. I hope you enjoyed my interpretation of events. Oh, and I love the 'we both know what's going on here' face; hope I don't overuse it.
> 
> We already have music that represents John and Sherlock. The main theme of the TV show, and the piece from S1E1 called 'Pursuit' represents them. I chose not to use those both because I couldn't find a solo violin version that I liked, and I thought people would be dissatisfied and not pay as close attention to something familiar. So I chose that other piece, and I listened to well over thirty versions before choosing that particular recording. That interpretation I believe captures the two characters well.
> 
> Spotify playlist with HQ recordings.   
> https://open.spotify.com/user/bcbdrums/playlist/2nAy9l0fQGMWiMr7aK5K3q?si=lWHS5rGhS-iZovxxg1kvtg   
> These are all the same as in the fic except the Bach; my personal preference is the YouTube version, but it isn't on Spotify. And this version of Csardas I consider to be definitive, but _that_ wasn't on YouTube. I also included a few relevant extras at the end. :)
> 
> (I am so excited to finally post this fic, you have no idea!)
> 
> And last but not least...
> 
> *Molly's theme. Here you go: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N-pyYSAq9N8 it exists here from 0:29-0:38. If you watch the episode...uh...wow I forgot the title. The first episode of S3. The scene where Molly tells Sherlock that she's engaged, and he kisses her cheek, you hear this theme a second time.
> 
> Thanks again for reading. This fic means a lot to me, so it means a lot that you took the time to read it.


End file.
